


Unbecoming

by inbox



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Breast Fucking, Breath restriction, Choking, Face Slapping, Fallout Kink Meme, Humiliation, M/M, Muscles, Pec Fuck, Slapping, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 02:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5726620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should feel ridiculous. It is ridiculous, the sight and feel and pressure of Maxson's weight on his chest, solid thighs digging into the meat of his flanks, one arm braced against the bulkhead as he takes his dick in hand. But it isn't, because that would make it a laughing matter, and Danse doesn't feel much like laughing as Maxon's cock smears lube and pre down the channel of his sternum. </p>
<p>Consensual but not particularly healthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbecoming

He should feel ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous, the sight and feel and pressure of Maxson's weight on his chest, solid thighs digging into the meat of his flanks, one arm braced against the bulkhead as he takes his dick in hand. But it isn't, because that would make it a laughing matter, and Danse doesn't feel much like laughing as Maxon's cock smears lube and pre down the channel of his sternum.  
  
The concrete of the bunker cuts into his elbows and seeps dampness into the waxed cotton of his suit. It chills his back and ass as Maxson's thighs press down his ribs, limit his breathing. Ridiculous. Unbecoming of his rank, his dignity. His or the Elder's, he's not entirely sure which. Not sure it even matters. Not any more.  
  
He's seen enough well worn skin mags to get the general concept of a titty fuck. Buxom women with full soft breasts, pushing their tits together enough to play peekaboo with the long, cut anonymous dick of prewar fantasy.  
  
He is none of those things, and Maxson's cock is dark and thick and his foreskin is flushed and ruddy as he jerks it back and forth over the plump head of his dick, but he still pushes his pecs together and makes a channel for Maxson to fuck into.  
  
Elder Maxson - Arthur, Danse reminds himself, he's set adrift with no honorific owed other than Arthur - tilts his head back; looks down his nose at Danse, eyes heavy-lidded as he jerks himself off.  
  
He opens his mouth to say something, to apologise again, but Maxson moves quicker than he can form his words and shoves his fingers into Danse's mouth. His fingers are damp and cool from the bunker wall, and rotten concrete grit smears onto his tongue and makes him choke.  
  
"Not a word," says Maxson. His voice is tight, tense. "Don't talk. Don't address me." He leans forward, pushing down on Danse's tongue until he has no choice but to open his mouth wide, staring wild-eyed as Maxson fucks his chest with a short sharp snap of his hips. His other hand presses on his dick, palm pressing down to give more pressure, more friction.  
  
Ridiculous, Danse thinks again. Degrading, but not for him. Easier to think about the Elder instead of his own dick hard in his shorts, pressed uncomfortably tight by the buckles and straps of a uniform he's not entitled to wear any more. As if he hadn't nurtured his inappropriate fantasy about this for years, even while following Maxson up through the hierarchy, matching merit for merit with utmost devotion. He would've offered himself up in a heartbeat if he'd only been asked. It would've been an honour.  
  
Maxson withdraws his fingers from his mouth, wipes them on Danse's cheek. His skin is flushed hot, burning cherry red crawling up his cheeks, and Maxson's touch is almost gentle as he smears spit through his unshaven stubble and along his jaw. "A waste," he says. He rubs his fingers down his neck, presses on his Adam's apple until Danse jerks his head back, the muscled column of his jaw jumping as he swallows the grit catching at the back of his throat.  
  
"All that training. All that--"  
  
"Loyalty," says Danse. His voice cracks. "Arthur--"  
  
Maxson ignores him. His breathing is heavier now, ragged as if he'd been sprinting, and every push of his hips knocks the breath out of Danse's chest. "A crime of nature," he says.  
  
"Yes," says Danse. He arches his hips, grinding against nothing, desperate to alleviate the dull ache of his dick.  
  
Maxson strokes the broad expanse of his chest, his sternum, cups the heel of his palm against the shelf of his collarbone, and offers a small grim nod of appreciation when Danse pushes his pectorals together tighter against his cock. "All that time spent with the enemy right at my back," he says. He pinches Danse's nipple hard enough that the dark areola blanches white.  
  
" _Yes_ ," agrees Danse readily. His balls are tight, held firm against the seam of his uniform.

"Abomination of technology," says Maxson, and slaps him across the cheek hard enough to make his jaw snap to the side. It's enough. Danse comes, hips arching untouched and unaided. He clutches at Maxson's thighs, his ears ringing and his skin burning hot, and the world fades from view.

* * *

Maxson is dressed when he comes to, tucking himself away in his jumpsuit and tugging his coat on as he leaves the bunker without a backwards glance. Danse rubs at his face and trails his fingertip through the still warm smear of semen painting his pectorals, his neck, his jaw.  
  
Ridiculous, he tells himself, as he lifts a finger to his mouth to taste Maxson's bitter leavings. Unbecoming.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with fanart! http://wastelandbonerhell.tumblr.com/post/138210435599/look-at-that-danse-commissioned-a-piece-from-the


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